


No Man Left Behind

by windsweptfic



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Beginnings, First Meeting, Gen, Recruitment, Rescue, allusion to torture, use of racial slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/pseuds/windsweptfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil recruits a soldier who is used to being discarded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Man Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my dear [cinaea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cinaea), and to [lucdarling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lucdarling) for putting up with my last-minute spasms.

The Chinese prison was dimly-lit and smelled of death.

Phil wiped off the blade of his combat knife on the guard he'd just put down, shoving the body against the wall before continuing on. He moved soundlessly through the long hallways lined with doors, the rest of his five-man team fanning out through the rest of the dank underground building. He'd taken out two patrolling guards already, silent and swift, and by the lack of noise, he knew the other agents were doing their jobs. Beseeching hands reached out through the small barred cell windows but he ignored them brusquely, focused on his target as he made his way toward the sounds of screaming.

The familiar drawl of an American accent guided him to a room near the back, passing soundlessly by doors that barely muffled the cries and shrieks from within. The voice he followed was loud and brash, laughter just this side of hysterical between punctuating screams.

"—you're fuckin' doin' it wrong, stupid Chink, those go under my _nails_ , who the fuck taught you to—"

The taunt was broken by a choked-off scream. _'He won't be holding a weapon anytime soon,'_ Phil mused as he took up position by the door, readying his knife.

"—there," the voice spoke up again, broken and shaky but still with that edge of unhinged mirth. "See, see now, that's how y'do shit _right_."

Phil tested the doorknob gently before twisting it sharply, snapping the door open inward. The grip he had on the handle kept the motion firmly in control: the edge of the heavy door slammed against the interrogator once, then twice. The man sprawled to the floor as Phil stepped quickly inside, closing the door behind him with deceptive gentleness before turning back. The interrogator had managed to roll himself onto his back, and Phil crossed the short distance swiftly, lifting up a boot and crushing his larynx with a sick, wet snap.

He waited the brief while as the man choked to death, not looking up until his body had ceased twitching. He turned to the captive; bright, startlingly blue eyes looked up at him through a haze of pain--and for the first time since he'd been given the mission, Phil paused, pulled out of his single-minded determination to carry out his orders.

"Didn' know angels came government-issue," the young Marine mumbled, blood trickling down his chin as he tilted his head back to squint at Phil through one good eye. He was in a bad way, strapped to a chair in the middle of the room without a stitch of clothing to cover his battered body. Bruises, cuts, lash-marks, electric burns; bloodied raw flesh where the skin had been sanded off. He crouched in front of the young man, slicing through the red-stained ropes keeping him tied down.

"Clint Barton?" he verified, pointlessly. His intel was always right; he had no reason to question it now.

"Yessir," Barton slurred, his right arm twitching as if to salute.

Phil noted that the bamboo shards had gone under the man's toenails, not his fingernails, and he quietly advised the rest of his team to rendezvous to his location.

"You're not—Corps," Barton murmured as Phil finished slicing through his bonds. He barely twitched when Phil lifted him from the chair after a cursory inspection, slinging him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. He was lighter than a soldier should be, lacking the muscle and body fat that two weeks of detainment had eaten away.

"No," Phil agreed distractedly. "Be quiet."

"'m never quiet," Barton mumbled into his shoulder. But he fell silent nevertheless, body sagging loose and pliant as Phil took a quick glance out the door. He caught Schrager's eye, a quick nod affirming the way out was clear, before easing the injured Marine through the door of the interrogation room.

Their extraction was simple enough: Phil went ahead, two of his agents lingering behind until he was out of the compound before going down the hall of cells, breaking open locks. They disappeared quietly into the thick underbrush as the rest of the prisoners caused enough racket to serve as a suitable distraction, and barely a word was exchanged between the five soldiers as they made their way to an abandoned airstrip where their plane waited. A pallet was already set up for Barton in the back, an IV drip ready in case he needed more intensive care, and Phil laid him carefully down on the cot as the engines fired up.

He turned away to let Schrager deal with Barton's injuries, when weak fingers curled around his wrist. He looked back in confusion.

Those shockingly bright eyes looked back at him pleadingly. "Why?"

Phil blinked at him for a few blank moments, thrown off by the question. He'd been assigned to the castoff sector of the recruitment division for a long time, and most of the people they rescued usually waited until they were off the good drugs to question their liberation.

"You weren't going to be retrieved," he said simply, honestly. "Your death certificate's already been signed and sealed. Your contingent gave up on you, and that meant you were up for grabs by anyone who thought you were worth the effort."

Barton's expression barely changed. His features shifted the tiniest bit with unsurprised resignation, and his hand dropped from Phil's wrist.

"And who's that?" Barton asked, tiredly.

Phil hesitated a moment before digging into his pocket. He produced a set of dogtags, printed only with Barton's name, newly-assigned number, and a small insignia, lowering them into Barton's automatically outstretched hand.

"The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

He shifted to the side as Schrager bustled past him with a stocked medkit and a thermal blanket, nodding in absent approval as Barton's fingers curled around the pieces of metal like a lifeline. He reached out, uncharacteristically, and laid a hand on Barton's shoulder. He squeezed gently.

"Welcome to SHIELD."


End file.
